


as fast as he can

by MourningPluto



Series: let's press fast-forward on this big fucked up mess [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Humanstuck, M/M, Sexual Content, psuedo-incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 12:24:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/686918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MourningPluto/pseuds/MourningPluto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your father used the word ‘stepbrother’. You didn’t like it then and you don’t like it now; at the time, you accepted rather grimly that this tall guy with slicked back hair and an unlit cigarette sticking from his lips was going to be in your life, for some undetermined reason.</p>
            </blockquote>





	as fast as he can

**Author's Note:**

> Reposted from my tumblr.

You are tired of him breathing your air.

Yes, your air. You don’t care how irrational it is. After all, this was your house first, and it was your dad’s house before Cronus was even conceived, you’re pretty sure. As it stands, he is allowed to live with you and your father. You aren’t completely sure why. In the farthest corners of your mind you think your dad might have married his mom, but it’s all rather hazy. Presumably this is the reason your father stays in his study, a veritable hermit. After your (real) mother left, and this one croaked. You assume Cronus’s presence has something to do with all of that, but again, you aren’t completely sure. 

Currently, Cronus is blaring music from his room, right next to yours, and that’s sort of what makes you realize that you’re tired of him breathing the same air as you - the fact that not even two-and-a-half inches of plywood is enough to erode his essence from the air. 

(You are also fairly sure that his horrible, oily, omnipresent cologne has managed to soak its way into your room. Either that, or you’ve finally lost it, and gone batshit up the fucking belfry.) 

Currently, Cronus is blaring music to somehow attempt to hide the fact that he’s jerking off, and you’re painfully aware of this. The reason you know is because one time you opened his door and told him to turn that shit down pronto, and there he was, with his cock out, looking at you with this shocked, vulnerable expression that made you feel guilty for exactly five seconds - until, in either a genuine offer or an attempt to save face, he asked you if you wanted to join him. Which you did not. 

(You are ALSO fairly sure that he does it to piss you off, since one time you told him that you’d personally choke him if he played ‘Greased Lightning’ from fucking-Grease-the-musical one more time at three am, and then a night or two later he played the entire Grease discography.) 

Currently, Cronus is - you can only speculate - breathing in a surplus of your air as he touches himself, and not only does that piss you off, but so does the fact that you’ve given far too much thought to the topic, thanks so much. 

It’s 2:45 in the morning, and all you really wanted was to scroll down Reddit in peace. Which you attempt to do.

You look at five pages without reading them. 

 

—-

You first met Cronus when your father introduced you. Your father used the word ‘stepbrother’. You didn’t like it then and you don’t like it now; at the time, you accepted rather grimly that this tall guy with slicked back hair and an unlit cigarette sticking from his lips was going to be in your life, for some undetermined reason. You distinctly remember thinking that you were being punished for something. Probably you were some kind of murderer or something, in your last life, because nobody deserves Cronus, nobody, that’s what you tell yourself. Not even a hypothetical murderer. Not even a real murderer. 

When your dad left the room, he called you ‘bangable’, and you called him ‘douche’, and that pretty much sums up every conversation you’ve had since then, in two tight little words. 

—-

You decide that maybe you should talk to someone, even though this is technically out of the question. No one uses Skype except to make video calls, and even if it weren’t two-almost-three in the goddamn morning (you have a friend who’s an insomniac) there’s no way in hell you’d be able to carry on a civilized conversation with “Boys Don’t Cry” being pumped through the airways as he pumps himself, slowly, with that same fucking expression- 

You used to think that ‘seeing red’ was just an expression, like ‘walking on eggshells’, or ‘sleeping with the fishes’. It isn’t. You can literally see carmine dance across your vision. 

You turn off your monitor and you turn off your light. You close your door. You cross the hallway.

You open his door. 

—-

The most irritating things about Cronus are the things that you can’t really complain about, because by nature the fact that you can’t rightfully bitch about them makes them worse than anything else he does. For example, Cronus does a lot of truly heinous things, like leave the television on, or take the last Creamsicle, or leave exactly half-a-swig of milk left in the carton, or clip his goddamn toenails in the middle of the living room, with his foot cradled up in his lap like he’s nursing it as he clip-clip-clips away, leaving bits and pieces of toenail in the couch for you to find later. 

But none of those are as bad, really, as some of the other shit he does. 

Sometimes, Cronus will speak about his friends and acquaintances - because as unbelievable as it is, there are some people actually willing to devote precious hours of their time with this asshole - in a way that suggests they owe him something, whether it be affection or appreciation or actual sex, he’s actually suggested that before, isn’t that a coup? Cronus is literally That Guy who shows his ass around on certain corners of the internet, lauding himself for being a ‘nice guy’ and holding chicks’ purses while they try on skirts or whatever, only to get pissy when they don’t invite him in the dressing room to stare at their tits. 

Sometimes, Cronus will speak of his romantic failures like he’s being slighted, or ripped off, or otherwise fucked over. He’ll seem genuinely confused, like he seriously doesn’t get it, and at first you thought he was kidding, he had to be, but he wasn’t. Just another one of life’s little disappointments. 

Sometimes, when you’re going up the stairs at night when you’re staying up past curfew and are attempting to sneak your happy ass back upstairs, he catches you in the dark, and he smacks your ass, and it sends a chill up your spine, and then you retreat to your room while he snickers at the staircase. 

It’s certainly annoying when you’re trying to catch up on your soap operas and you feel one of his toenail clippings jab you in the thigh, but at least you can complain about that, and at least people understand, and at least you can coherently voice these complaints. 

There are some things you can’t complain about. And they fester inside you, leaving you rotten inside out, decaying, falling apart, ripping at the seams. They attach to you like tiny little tumors, like barnacles on a ship, like pebbles in your shoe. 

Naturally you don’t say anything. To anyone. 

 

—-

Here and now, Cronus doesn’t have the decency to look shocked when you barge in on him. You take a certain kind of glee in slamming the door behind you. (Your father is in a passionate embrace with some kind of toxic cocktail of Xanax and ‘diet pills’. He could be fisted in the mouth by Edward Scissorhands and he wouldn’t wake up, you’re pretty sure. It’s what gives you that extra little push to walk over to Cronus’s stereo system and bend down to unplug it from the wall. You make sure to turn around and give him your perkiest grin. 

He’s still touching his cock as he accosts you. “What the fuck,” he asks you, only it’s more like a statement, and you guess it’s rather telling that he doesn’t kick you out. A close second to how telling it is that you showed up in the first place. 

It looks like he’s about to open his worthless awful mouth again, so you have no qualms with closing the distance between you to fix that problem right up. 

Cronus tastes vaguely of alcohol that he should not have access to, of something salty and maybe metallic, of something else you can’t quite pinpoint and decide to christen ‘regret’. He has you pulled up on top of him in absolutely no time, which is fine you guess, even though he’s hard and in essence it feels a bit like he’s trying to fuck you through your layers of clothing, and sometime in between kisses you adjust yourself so that you don’t feel like you’re a pair of skinny jeans away from being reamed up the asshole. 

You think you detect him about to ask why, into your mouth, and you think you detect him thinking better of it and shutting the fuck up. 

That’s nice of him you suppose.

—-

Cronus has people over a lot, and depending on who he’s with, he’s a different shade of annoying. You’ve learned to determine who he’s with based off what shit he’s blaring through his speakers (because apparently they’re his pride and joy and because apparently also he does play music once in a while for reasons not pertaining to his dick, at least not directly). Nicki Minaj means it’s his rude bitchy friend with the eyebrow piercing. Bei Mir Bist du Schon means it’s that bookish girl who’s related to your ex or something. Anything else, and it basically means he’s getting stoned with that foreign exchange girl, again, which wouldn’t matter except you have to use the hallways, too, and walking around with your inhaler practically up your nose is annoying and gross.

It’s occurred to you that you might dislike Cronus’s myriad female friends because you’re afraid, on some level, that he might corrode at their morals one by one until the weakest link gets desperate enough to screw him, and then you wouldn’t be bangable, and sometimes ‘bangable’ is all you have. 

—-

You kiss him sort of hungrily, like you’re trying to attack him, which you sort of are. He’s groping your ass and you’re more than a little annoyed that the action is enough to get you hard nearly instantly. 

You kiss like you’re lovers, or maybe enemies, you aren’t sure. All you really know is that you might let him fuck you, maybe, but instead you sort of swat his hand away from his cock and rub it yourself, roughly, with your mood rings and Nice Jewelry. He makes wretched, rueful noises. You hope it hurts. 

Cronus says your name like he’s saying the name of his murderer, and that’s what you are, his murderer; you intend to kill his dignity, as you jack him off in his room with the music off, just you and him and those ridiculous noises he’s making. You make sure to look at him. 

He meets your eyes and he smirks which pisses you the fuck off, so you retaliate by giving him a nice, hard hickey, right on his collarbone. You know he’ll show it off, and you also know that you are literally the only person who gives a flying fuck what’s on his neck. 

You sort of make him lie down more, against the pillow, and when he comes it’s all over himself and his stupid Lady GaGa shirt, the one he fucking stole from you because you got it to wear as a sleepshirt, not for him, nothing you do is for him. 

—-

There are many occasions where Cronus is all you think about, which sort of sucks, because if you’re going to be occupied with something it really shouldn’t be something so awful. The fact of the matter is that he is the worst person you’ve ever met, which is quite the honor, since you’ve known a lot of assholes. At the same time you want his approval, on some sick sort of level, and at the same time you’re really glad your druggie of a dad is too stupid to know that you are living under the same roof as your now-and-then fuck buddy.

—-

When he sucks you off (which he does because he knows it leaves you a twitching, shivering mess) you always stick your fingers in his hair, and you mess it up, oh you mess it up good.


End file.
